


help!

by logicalspecs



Series: requests :) [2]
Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Gen, M/M, i've decided to make each request their own fic :), repost, tw body issues, tw period typical homophobic slurs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-06
Updated: 2019-06-06
Packaged: 2020-04-11 11:59:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19109215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/logicalspecs/pseuds/logicalspecs
Summary: "...Some chubby John hurt/comfort next?" - DemonDean10They all had their thing; George was the quiet Beatle, Paul was the cute Beatle, Ringo was the happy Beatle, and John-John was the fat Beatle.





	help!

**Author's Note:**

> this was requested by the lovely DemonDean10! hope you enjoy!
> 
> TW: body issues, some period typical homophobic slurs
> 
> also, this got a little more shippy then i intended, and i in no way am saying that this really happened. this is is pure fiction
> 
> anyways, hope y'all enjoy!

_“When I was younger, so much younger than today,”_

The song echoes through the studio, the room almost completely empty. He sits alone at the piano, his fingers hitting the keys just a bit too hard, but he can't bring himself to care. The air is suffocating, and each line of the song steals the only breath he has left. He almost stumbles over his words, but quickly catches himself, and lets his hands move on muscle memory alone.

His mind drifts, his thoughts lost in days long passed away. His mother, her beautiful red hair glowing in the afternoon sun as a record spins endlessly in the background. Stu, his eyes bright and young-

They were so young- they still are, he thinks darkly. Hell, George only just turned twenty-two. 

The world watches their every move, analyses their every word. They're walking on eggshells, and he can feel the cracks forming under their feet. Who they are supposed to be is said for them, their personalities shoved in molds for the public to shape. Paul is the cute one, George is the quiet one, Ringo is the happy one, and John-

_“I never needed anybody's help in anyway.”_

The words crawl from his mouth in melancholy waves, and he almost feels a part of himself in every chord that rings through the deserted studio.

 _The Fat Beatle_ , the paper had said. Paul was the one reading the article, one early morning in their hotel room, a horrified expression tainting his features. John had reached for the paper, a spike of concern tickling the hairs on the back of his neck, only for Paul to jump away like he'd been burned.

John had let it go, but the incident had remained in his mind for the rest of the morning, until Paul had ducked into the bathroom, and John quickly uncovered the paper from Paul's bag.

His heart had felt like it had stopped beating, and yet he couldn't seem to look away from the criticizing words. They had attached a picture of him with Cynthia at the beach, when he was clad in only his swim trunks.

Paul had ripped the paper from his hands, and they had stared at each other for a tense second before George had knocked at the door and called them down for tea.

John didn't eat much that day, nor has he since, always says he feels to sick. It isn't a lie, not really. Paul sometimes manages to get him to eat something, saying it'll make him feel better, but it only makes the ache in his heart heavier.

_“But now, these days are gone, I'm not so self-assured.”_

He plays a few more notes before he hits a wrong key, the sour chord drawing him back to the darkened room. His hands drift to turn off the demo recording, a slight tremble running through him as he holds back the constant ache that seems to have settled in his stomach over the course of the past few weeks.

He stares blankly at the keys, his mind seemingly reeling and still at the same time.

“John?” The voice is soft, but it still startles him. His breath catches in the back of his throat as a gentle hand lands on his shoulder, and he quickly pulls away, instinctively wrapping his arms around his middle.

“That's a nice number, there.” The voice- Paul's voice, he realizes- is more hesitant this time, ever so cautious. A ticking time bomb, his mind reminds him, and John swallows heavily.

He nods slowly. “Ta, Macca.”

A blanket of silence falls over them, swallowing any words John could've said. Paul must've let himself in, he realizes. Julian and Cyn were visiting her parents for the weekend, leaving John alone in the house.

Paul's hands slowly drift along the keys, his long fingers dusting over the black and white ivory. The younger man sits on the bench next to him, and John quickly moves over, sparing Paul from having to touch him. Paul glances at him, and John can feel the pity radiating from him.

A swell of bitterness rises in him, and he can't help but find himself infuriated by Paul's beauty. He's all long lashes and puckered lips, and his nose rounds softly at the tip. He's tall and he's slim, his stomach flat, and hell, even the baby fat he does have just makes the birds love him more. He's almost like a doll, with that plastered on grin and endless optimism, and sometimes John just wants to punch the smug smile right off his face-

Paul's hands start dancing across the keys, and even after all these years, John still finds himself amazed at Paul's ability to learn music so quickly.

It's the song he was just working on, [Help!], but there's something lighter about it when Paul plays it. It's faster, with a more Beatles-like beat, and John quietly takes note of that. They'll probably have to speed up the tempo for this song, use the music to bring a lighter tone to the lyrics. He feels the bitterness resurface, both at Paul, and at the world. Why can't the song be slow and painful, and _feeling?_

There's nothing behind the lyrics when Paul sings them, no hidden cry for help, no begging for someone to please just _help me-_

Paul suddenly stops playing, leaving the room to drown in that horrible silence again, and John feels his breathing quicken.

“Keep playing.” The words force themselves from his mouth before he can stop them, and Paul's droopy eyes narrow.

“Alright,” Paul says, quietly, _too quietly,_ as he reaches for his guitar instead of the piano.

The music picks up again, filling the room and filling John's ears, and feels the suffocating air pressing in on him ease, just a bit. The melody this time is softer, sadder, and Paul only hums along with it, no words to go with the song.

Suddenly, John sees a spark light in Paul's eyes, and Paul's voice suddenly joins in with the guitar.

“ _Scrambled eggs,_ ” He starts, and John can't help the somewhat incredulous smile the breaks onto his lips. 

“ _Oh, my baby, how I love your legs,_ ” Paul continues, grinning, and John snorts, finally looking up and meeting Paul's eyes. 

They're unbelievably open and vulnerable, and John finds himself caught off guard. The smile slowly falls from his face as Paul's guitar playing fades away.

“John,” Paul's voice is back to being that horrible, pitying quiet, the happier moment gone in an instant, and John feels his shields raise. 

“Can I tell you something a little queer?” Paul asks as he sets his guitar to the side, his hands coming to rest anxiously in his lap.

John's mind races at the strange question, and he finds himself blinking dumbly, any words he could say caught on his tongue.

“I think you're beautiful, like,” Paul says finally, and John freezes.

“What?” Is all he can manage to bite out, and Paul cowers, his eyes scared. _Rightly so, ya fairy,_ part of his mind sneers.

“Y'know,” Paul starts, his brows furrowed in thought. “I know you read that article the other week, and-”

“Paul,” John cuts him off, the word so sudden he startles even himself. “Just don't, son.”

Paul looks down at his hands for a second, and John feels a wave of relief, thinking that he had dropped the subject, only for Paul to look up again with renewed vigor.

“John, you haven't been eating, your hands are constantly shaking, and I know you can barely sleep, so please, _please_ , let me _help you_.” Paul's words are quick, his voice breaking slightly at the end, and John can almost feel the witty poke at Paul going through puberty on his tongue, but he finds himself too tired to voice it.

It's almost worse, because he knows Paul's right. He hasn't been himself, and the others have began to take notice. Hell, even Brian had come up to him the other day, asking with that posh yet concerned voice of his if John was okay.

He looks up at Paul, who's watching him with careful eyes, and he feels a burst of inspiration fill him. He reaches quickly for his pencil and pad, ignoring Paul's surprised expression, and begins scribbling messily.

_Help me if you can, I'm feeling down._

_And I do appreciate you being 'round._

_Help me get my feet back on the ground-_

“Does that mean you'll let me?” Paul asks, his voice ghosting just above John's shoulder as he reads the new lyrics.

John just nods, slowly, and Paul beams at him.

“Come on, then,” Paul grabs his hand, pulling them both to their feet. John follows almost numbly, and his hand burns where it touches Paul's soft skin. He should pull away, he knows he should, Paul shouldn't touch such filth-

Paul has stopped again, looking at John again with that _look_ , except, this time, John realizes that it was never pity in Paul's gaze, but pure worry. The look that had seemed so degrading before is suddenly so comforting, and John can see the utter _care,_ in his eyes.

“John, love,” Paul says, “I won't be able to do this alone, y'know. I'll need your help to help you.”

John nods, and Paul looks down, seemingly thinking.

“You know what I find beautiful about you?” Paul asks after a few seconds, catching John off-guard. “Your hair glows orange in certain lights,” Paul continues before John can respond.

Paul's hands gently twirl a loose strand of John's hair, and John can do nothing but watch in shock. Paul's fingers trace down his face, his touch feather-light.

“Your eyes are as sweet as almonds, and yet, they burn as bright as a fire, 'specially when you're pissed.” Paul smiles, and it's almost endearingly lopsided as his hands move down John's cheeks.

“Do you rehearse that in the mirror every night?” John says, the quip more of a reflex than anything else, and Paul's grin just widens.

“You're amazing, Johnny. I wish you could just see it.” Paul's hands move down his arms, and John swallows thickly.

“And sure, you may be a little chubby, but what's so bad about that?” Paul's voice is light, gentle, and John finally let's part of himself relax, forcing himself to at least listen to Paul's words.

Paul yawns suddenly, and only then does John remember how late it is.

“How do ya say we turn in for a kip, Paulie?” He leads Paul gently down the hall to the guest room, and Paul pulls him into the bed with him before John can do anything else.

“Stay?” Paul asks, and John's mind drifts to all the long nights that the four of them and spent tangled together. He feels a strange warm feeling in his chest as he climbs in the bed next to Paul, who quickly presses himself against John.

The familiar voice in his mind screams at him, and he almost pushes Paul away, but the weight on his chest feels so _nice_ , so he decides instead to focus on the steady rhythm of Paul's breaths puffing against him.

“And you make a great pillow,” Paul mumbles sleepily, his words muffled in John's shirt.

“You better not be going soft on me, McCartney,” He says, if only to try and smother the grin that he knows is splitting his cheeks.

“Only for you, John. Only for you.”

**Author's Note:**

> some history behind this chapter:  
> \- the fat beatle comment wasn't made by a paper, nor an article, but it was actually an off-hand comment from a reporter, and it stuck with john  
> \- you can actually listen to the slower piano demo of help! that john was supposedly recording in this chapter here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MR6r9-sRfoo (this was actually recorded around 1970, not 1965, but i feel it captures the essence of the song as he had wanted it in the sixties)
> 
> as always, feel free to leave requests in the comments or hmu on my tumblr @ eveningmccartney


End file.
